


Broken Traps

by WizardSandwich



Series: Prowl Week [6]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Manipulation, Self-Hatred, i guess, i'm so sorry i only know vague shit about shattered glass, idk how much the character death tag applies when the character doesn't die in the fic, like vague, mentions of nonconsensual body modification and stuff, no editing on this one, that's like a big theme, the pairing is more implied tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardSandwich/pseuds/WizardSandwich
Summary: Day 6 - PeacePeace is subjective.
Relationships: Bluestreak & Prowl, Prowl/Sideswipe (Transformers)
Series: Prowl Week [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703245
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37
Collections: Prowl Week





	Broken Traps

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of shit

They have Prowl cuffed, servos behind his back, before he can even speak. It’s not a surprise, all things considered. The Decepticon victory means a lot of things. Megatron will talk about forgiveness in a speech that is all Starscream, as if there weren’t four million years of carnage and hatred. Ricochet will rage. Ratchet will offer his services in exchange for freedom.

Prowl gets cuffed like this.

“Where’s Bluestreak?” Prowl demands, snapping his fangs at Misfire.

An Autobot snickers behind Prowl but he does his best to ignore it. He just tries to keep his attention on Misfire. The Decepticon’s cool gaze examines Prowl and his anger. He looks more amused than he does threatened. And that would be fine—he’s never been threatening—if everything Prowl had didn’t rely on that.

“We don’t know,” Misfire answers after a moment. “High command is still collecting your lot.”

The special, Ratchet-made part of Prowl’s processor cobbles together probabilities and explanations. The only thing it has ever been good for is overthinking. It bombards him with scenarios that would send him into hysterics were he in private.

“Misfire,” a voice calls from outside the empty command room. “Krok says we’re packing up. Tarn’s got the rest.”

The mech that steps through the doorway is one he recognizes, ever so vaguely. Fulcrum, Prowl thinks his name is. A known problem for the Autobot cause.

“Got it,” Misfire says. “We’re leaving the Autobots here, correct?”

Prowl feels like he’s evading the word “prisoners” and almost wants to snap at the mech. He _does_ want to snap at him, to tell him not to hide behind the soft and cushy and false wording of the Decepticon cause. Prowl has never liked falsehoods. Fact was a comfort, even if it made his processor hurt him.

“Yeah,” Fulcrum says. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Wait,” the words spill from Prowl’s lips before he can stop them. When Misfire’s gaze locks onto him again, Prowl can only shrink into himself.

“What?” Misfire asks.

Prowl swallows the bile that rises at the idea of what he’s about to do. He reigns in the coding that shouts at him to hurt this mech, the coding he knows wasn’t really there until Ratchet got ahold of him.

“Take me with you,” Prowl almost begs. “Please.”

Fulcrum raises an optical ridge, “That’s a new one. What happened to the ‘you’ll die, Decepticon scum?’”

Prowl thinks that’s probably something that Jazz snarled at them when they’d cuffed him. Prowl looks over his shoulder to meet Jazz’s feral grin.

“You really going beg them like that, Prowl? You’ve always been a coward and a turncoat,” Jazz’s voice is sugary sweet, tinged with threat and malice. “If you go with them, I’ll kill you when I escape.”

“You won’t,” Tarn says, stepping into the room. The low light of the command center makes his white paint seem grey. “Misfire, Fulcrum, take the Autobot on your ship. If he’s a threat, I imagine you can contain him.”

Misfire nods, “We can. Can I ask why we’re taking him?”

Tarn hums and his optics soften. Prowl doesn’t like the expression. It makes him want to curl up into a ball to never get up again. Softness is not meant for mechs like Prowl. Not the mech who let Bluestreak get dragged into this mess. Not the mech collared and cowed by threats.

“Orders. Besides, he’s not a threat,” Tarn says, as if it’s simple as that.

Prowl knows it’s not. Misfire knows it’s not. Fulcrum knows it’s not. But Misfire accepts the orders with a thin-lipped nod and shakes his helm when Fulcrum opens his mouth to speak. He doesn’t ask who the orders are from or why. Fulcrum clearly respects Misfire enough to listen, even as Prowl’s overactive processor tries to come up with an explanation.

They’re hauling Prowl up in the next moment, helping him to his pedes. Fulcrum lets go as soon as he can, but Misfire makes sure Prowl can stand. The base is practically a ghost town as they step through the halls. Every step echoes and reverberates off the walls. He can hear Jazz yell threats after them.

“So, why’d you want to come along anyway?” Fulcrum asks.

Prowl almost doesn’t want to answer, but he knows that could end badly for him. Instead, he thinks of red optics and soft smiles, the sound of silence and a sure shot.

“I want to find Bluestreak,” Prowl says simply. “I need to find him. Please.”

Begging, Optimus Prime had once said, befit Prowl. So he leans into it. He lets his voice take the pleading tone that he’s so used to hiding behind.

Fulcrum looks down at him, frowning, “That sniper guy?” Prowl nods, eager to hear whatever this mech may know. Instead, Fulcrum simply says, “Good luck, I guess.”

Prowl wishes he weren’t cuffed so he could try to hit him. It wouldn’t help. Prowl isn’t a good warrior. Fulcrum could probably tear him apart piece by piece.

But it would be satisfying.

-

Prowl and the crew of the Strong Anthropic Principle arrive at the Kaon command base five stellar cycles after leaving Iacon. The halls are busy and bustling, Decepticons floating about. They all look delighted, as Prowl supposes they should in peace. But it just makes Prowl’s anger rise.

He bites down on the coding that screams rage at him. The one thing he’s always been good at is controlling his urges. It was for the best, with Bluestreak around.

Sideswipe greets them at the entrance to an empty room.

His very presence makes Prowl want to throw himself back to the Autobots. At least they would tear him apart. Sideswipe would give him those sad optics and touch his plating and tell him that everything was alright. Being torn apart would hurt less.

“I’ll take him from here,” Sideswipe says. “Megatron’s waiting for your crew, Krok.”

Krok nods, slipping past him, “See you for energon later, Sides.”

Sideswipe gives him a small smile and nods, “Of course.”

When all of the Scavengers are gone, Sideswipe turns to Prowl. Prowl shifts uncomfortably. He hasn’t been uncuffed since they’d left Iacon, but Prowl has no reason to complain. A little bit of pain is better than a lot.

“Prowl,” Sideswipe says and his voice is soft, “it’s good to see you.”

Prowl tries not to look away from him, but finds that he can’t. He lets his gaze drop to the wall over Sideswipe’s shoulder. He tries to distract his processor by counting the cracks.

“Prowl,” Sideswipe tries again.

Prowl’s optics snap to his face again, to the soft and familiar lines. “What?” he snarls, feels his careful grasp on his coding loosen. “What, Sideswipe? What do you want from me?”

To Sideswipe’s credit, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look surprised, just resigned. “What did they do to you?” he asks softly.

And, maybe, they shouldn’t do this in public. Maybe Prowl should shove Sideswipe into that empty room and scream at him until he can’t anymore. But Prowl can’t bring himself to care.

“A lot,” he bites. “They did a lot to me, Sideswipe, but there’s nothing either of us can do to change that. Why am I here? Where’s Bluestreak?”

Sideswipe’s gaze somehow manages to get softer. He steps to the side, gesturing toward the doorway. “We’ll talk more in here.”

Prowl almost argues, but can find no good reason to. He tries to clamp down on the anger and the rage as he steps past Sideswipe. Sideswipe shuts the door behind them.

The room, to Prowl’s surprise, is a habsuite. It’s sparsely furnished, but definitely lived in. He almost asks who it belongs to before he sees the old holoframe sitting on the table. Bluestreak and Prowl and Sideswipe. Before.

“Why am I here?” Prowl asks and he can hear his voice break.

His optics never leave the picture, the wide smile on Bluestreak’s face. Prowl had both of his optics then too. He spares himself the lament about how time changes things, about how Optimus Prime ruins good bots and good things. About his own failure.

“You know why,” Sideswipe says, a million implications in his words. A million reminders of the past. “Listen, Hook can fix you.”

“I don’t need _fixing,”_ Prowl snaps, whirling around to face Sideswipe. Whatever grasp he had on the anger is gone. “I don’t need whatever miracle you think Hook has for me. I don’t need Megatron’s pretty fragging speeches. I don’t need any of it. I don’t need you. I don’t need anything. I _want_ Bluestreak.”

Prowl has never been good at being angry despite the coding, so it all comes out a jumbled mess of desperation. It is a denial and a lie. Prowl does not need anything, but he does. He’s a broken thing, barely held together by the knowledge that Bluestreak is out there somewhere.

Sideswipe can see through him, “You need a lot of things, Prowl.”

“I want Bluestreak,” Prowl persists. “Where’s Bluestreak, Sideswipe?”

Sideswipe frowns. Prowl doesn’t feel sorry about it. It takes a long moment for Sideswipe to speak. When he does, his voice is low. “Prowl,” he says carefully, “Bluestreak is dead.”

Grief and anger bubble up in Prowl’s chest. He does not fight it. He wishes he could destroy that holoframe like he destroys everything else in his life. There’s no fighting against the tears or the screaming or the way he finds himself desperately clawing at the plating on his palms.

Bluestreak’s designation mixes with sobs and shouts and all of his hurts. It is an anchor in a storm except it’s not. Because Bluestreak is dead and Prowl is alive and what kind of caretaker is he—

-

Prowl wakes up alive. Sideswipe’s servo is clutched in his own. He focuses his single optic on where Sideswipe’s digits tangle with his and pries himself away. Sideswipe doesn’t stir from his recharge.

“Do I have to sedate you again?” Hook asks.

Prowl feels the hollowness in his chest, where the anger should be, and finds it empty. He only finds grief and mourning.

“Please,” Prowl begs.

Hook’s visor dims. He looks sad. Sad for Prowl. “I can’t sedate you without reason,” Hook says.

Prowl wants to scream again but he can’t find the will or the anger. “Are you sure?” Prowl asks.

Hook nods, “I am. I’m going to wake Sideswipe up now.”

It’s meant to prepare Prowl, more than anything, but as he watches Hook move to tap Sideswipe’s shoulder, a question comes to mind.

“Did you get rid of it?” Prowl asks, quiet and resigned. “The anger?”

Hook looks almost surprised at the question, but nods. “I got rid of all the malicious coding in your processor, but I couldn’t remove the attachments Ratchet installed entirely. You’ve still got that calculator in your helm, I just quieted it down.”

Prowl nods, bringing his knees up to meet his bumper. He’s not sure what he thinks of that. He hasn’t been anything but angry and overwhelmed for a long time. Not since the Autobots had sunk their claws in Bluestreak.

Prowl watches as Hook shakes Sideswipe’s shoulder. Sideswipe powers on slowly, but his optics brighten when he looks at Prowl.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says to Prowl. “I’m sorry I didn’t save him.”

Prowl frowns. “I don’t think you could have,” he says, feeling the pit of grief in his tank grow wider.

Sideswipe’s optics soften with sadness. “I don’t think I could have either,” he admits. “They told me—do you want to hear about this?”

Prowl shakes his helm. He’d rather not think of it. Not now, not when the wound is so fresh.

“Hold me?” he requests.

Sideswipe moves to Prowl's side, wrapping his arms around him. And Prowl wishes that he had been a stronger mech, all that time ago. Bluestreak was the most important thing to him. He would have followed his bitlet anywhere, to any faction. He should have been strong enough to keep Optimus Prime’s and Ratchet’s and Jazz’s claws out of him.

“I’m sorry,” Prowl says.

Sideswipe’s hold only tightens.


End file.
